The Sparrow

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father.” – Matthew 10:29

“Look, mom! Look what I found!” We stood perched over the wood chips, staring at the sparrow under the tree. The sparrow could not stand; it just lay on its side in the position that it had fallen out of the tree in. It looked like a normal bird: it was small, light brown with streaks and highlights of slightly darker brown. It wasn’t bloody or deformed, but it just didn’t look quite right. It just lay on the wood chips, gasping for air, as the cool Sunday breeze rustled the leaves on the deciduous tree it lay under. I squatted in the grass in front of my standing parents to get as close to the poor creature as I could. They stayed on the sidewalk. My dress pants were slightly too small and squeezed uncomfortably around my knees as I sat on my heels. The breeze tickled my exposed ankles as my pants hiked themselves up. One of my socks was pulled up higher than the other, probably because they weren’t matching.

“Can we take it home?” I asked them.

“No, it’s probably sick. A normal bird wouldn’t lie on the ground like that. We don’t want to get any diseases from it,” my mom answered quite swiftly.

It wasn’t until she said that it looked sick that it occurred to me that the sparrow was dying. Of course she didn’t want me to touch it, but as its chest heaved for air my chest burned within me. I couldn’t cry. Not for a sparrow. I wanted to reach out and touch it. I wanted to pick it up. I just wanted it. I wanted to stand up and cry out. I wanted to shout, “It’s not sick! It’s fine! It doesn’t have diseases!” But I couldn’t; I just couldn’t tell the truth. I didn’t know how to say it; I didn’t even know why or even what I had done.

The entire car ride home I could not get the scene out of my mind. I was running through the parking lot, Sunday’s best and happy. My dad had let me take his keys to unlock the car so I could deposit some Sunday School photocopied picture that I had colored with crayons. I had always been very conscious of coloring within the lines, filling in the entire space; every drawing was an accomplishment, each being left in the car until the seat pocket was stuffed to bursting. Running back to the church building was when I first spotted the sparrow. It caught my eye and I determined I would make it my pet. I dashed towards the tree it perched in, no plan in my mind of actually catching it, only a picture of me with a pet sparrow. It was a wonderful picture. We were so happy in it.

As the startled bird took off to flee the tree, I acted out of reflex. I couldn’t catch a flying bird. In my seven year old mindset I tried to swing for the bird in a last ditch effort to prevent it from escaping. The key ring slipped out of my cupped hand, hurtling towards the terrified bird. To be honest, I don’t recall the actual moment that the heavy keys struck the bird. I just remember regaining a grip of the keys and watching my pet hit the wood chips.

I sat still as the moment kept playing over, over, over. The thick cotton belt tightened, the sparrow fell. Each strike of the keys hurt more than the last, each ache burning in my chest. It’d been years since it happened and I’d never told my mom the truth about the sparrow; I’m sure a week later she had forgotten about it. The tears ran down my cheek, saline filling my mouth; my entire face was red and wet. The belt was still loose, but seemed to be tightening as I wept; the cheap metal clasp began to slip. My bedroom was hot and stuffy, but all I wanted to think about were the kids in my class, the kids at school, every single one of them. I could see the tormenting ringleader, Carl’s, face clearly now. He was rhythmically repeating the same words. He would hurt me, apologize, and then the next day he would hurt me again. The pulsing of insult after apology after insult after apology was creeping up my neck like meth-ants, or maybe that was just the belt again. His fiery crew-cut only further articulated the hatred in his eyes.

My eyes and cheeks burned as I peered through the crack in the music room door. The hallway was dark and cold and desolate, but he could still see me peeping and continued to silently spew firebrands out from among the timpani and glockenspiels. Each torment pierced my belly; I was going to be sick. The classmates who couldn’t hide their grins were assumed to be enjoying class. All others claimed innocence. All but Mary, that is. She liked Carl, we all knew, but she was the only person in the class who hadn’t told me that she hated me. She always denied the crush, but we gave her a hard time after she blurted out Carl’s name when the music teacher asked her favorite food. Apparently she meant to say calamari.

A year later she moved away and the last thing she told me was that it was me and not Carl.

I continued to peer through the crack until I saw Mrs. Olsen, the music teacher, obliviously galumphing towards the door to find me after my sudden dart out of class. Her tight red curls bounced over her pale wrinkled weight as she waddled. I went to find a drinking fountain to wash the vomit taste out of my mouth.

I was still in my room. My eyes were still puffy and red. The nausea returned with the memory of music class. Sitting on my bed, I replayed it in my mind. I really just wanted the sparrow out of my mind. I didn’t want to be a killer. They were the destructive ones, not me. I was the victim. There was only room for one. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take any of it: the sparrow, the arrows, the sparrow, short cropped fire, sparrows.

What if the sparrow had flown from the tree faster? What if the sparrow had known what would happen if it didn’t? What if it could understand consequences of actions? What if I could do the same? I wasn’t a sparrow. What was I doing?

I unclasped the cheap metal belt buckle and let it hang across my shoulders as I sat on the bed, gasping for air. My Adam’s apple was sore. I took a shower before dinner. I decided it was best not to bring up the sparrow again.

The following year I switched schools.